


My love is like the sun

by Snow0404



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: General Angst, Kidnapping, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2018-12-26 14:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12061044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snow0404/pseuds/Snow0404
Summary: "So Mr. Holmes or is it Holmes-Lestrade?""What do you want?""Lets play a game."





	1. Chapter 1

Closing his eyes with a small and quiet sigh, he gently lifted the blankets hoping not to disturb the other already beneath them. 

With another gentle exhale Mycroft slid into the sheets next to Greg, settling his aching and weary body down. For a moment he remained utterly still, reveling in the simple feeling of being in bed. Slowly he turned to his sleeping partner and studied the soft features. 

Greg’s eyes fluttered in deep sleep, peace written all over his face. He was breathing deeply and contentedly through his nose. With a soft smile Mycroft shifted a small piece of Greg’s hair off his forehead. 

It was all very domestic and utterly cliché, and yet, Mycroft would have it no other way. It had been an incredibly long time since he had been this happy, this content. He looked forward to coming home, instead of dreading it as he did when he was alone. His large, dark and empty house once loomed over him and swallowed him whole. 

Now when he came home, he could hear the TV running or listen to his husband humming in the kitchen. 

Content couldn’t even begin to describe how he felt right now. 

With another small and thankful sigh, he snuggled closer and draped his arm across his lover and closed his eye to finally rest. 

><><><><><><><

“Poor sod,” Greg muttered sincerely. 

He turned to Donovan, “Alright, what’ve we got?”

She chewed her lip and flipped through her notebook.

“Driver’s license I.D.s him as Mark Pritcher, about forty years old, was found by an old woman and her dog going for their morning walk at about six this morning. She’s over there when you want to talk to her,” She gestured to her left, where an elderly woman was sitting and petty her dog looking frantic and scared. 

“Cause of death?” 

“Strangulation, between four thirty and five this morning. But boss, there was something weird that the coroner noticed,” she walked over and nodded to the other woman, who was crouching down next to the body.

She reached forward and opened the dead man’s mouth. In his tongue, there was a small gold piercing. Greg turned to Donovan and shook his head, confused. 

“That happened after death Inspector, the murderer jammed this pin into the dead man’s tongue,” the coroner answered. 

“The hell?” Greg whispered running a hand through his hair. 

“We need to find his next of kin.”

“Anderson is already on it,” Donovan answered with a small scribble in her notebook.

“Alright, so this clearly wasn’t a robbery. His wallet, phone, and credit cards are all still here. So, what was the point in killing this guy?”

“It was clearly a hate crime.”

Lestrade breathed deeply and willed himself to have patience. He turned and watched Sherlock Holmes saunter up to them, followed by an apologetic looking John. 

“Holmes.”

“Donovan.”

It was an interesting exchange, one of fragile respect and an agreement of truce. 

“What makes you think it was a crime of hate?” Lestrade asked. 

“This man is homosexual, clearly because nothing was stolen and his body was desecrated in this strange way. This could be a crime of passion but the chances of that are smaller,” he said while crouched down and studying the body. 

He hummed in interest as he danced around, his gloved hands lifting this and pulling that. 

Greg sighed again and had learned by now that it was just better to let him do what he wanted to. He looked up at the bright sky and lamented having to leave his bed with Mycroft. Their activities of the morning still very prominent in his mind and vastly improved his mood. 

“Stop thinking of my Brother.”

Greg had the decency to flush a bit, but remained unashamed and smiled at his brother in law. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grunted unhappily. Suddenly, he sprang up and strode over to John and whispered something in his ear. By the way John’s entire face turned red as a tomato Greg imagined it was just as bad as what he had been thinking. 

John hissed something back angrily but only succeeded in making Sherlock’s smirk grow wider. He murmured something that left John sputtering in his wake. John chased after him still murmuring angrily, Greg could see the small smile on his face before he turned away. 

Lestrade was happy for them, truly. They deserved each other and he could tell they made each other happy. 

How is your day going? -MHL

Fine, yourself?- GHL

America continues to frustrate, but I believe I am beginning to win them over.- MHL

If anyone could, it’s you.- GHL

See you home for dinner?-GHL

I will do my best to escape my dear, but chances are I may have to stay late.-MHL

Greg couldn’t help the stab of disappointment. This had been the fourth time this week that Mycroft wouldn’t be home before dinner. If anything, he always arrived home long after Lestrade had gone to sleep. It was frustrating, but Greg couldn’t blame his husband for these things out of his control. He sighed again and ran a hand through his hair. 

Be safe, love you.-GHL

Of course, love you too.-MHL 

“Trouble in paradise?” Donovan asked with a small smile. 

Greg shrugged and shoved his phone deep into his pocket. He shrugged and turned to face the dead man. 

“Nothing important, I’m just seeing him less and less. Work is tough for both of us, and it’s rare when the stars align and we’re both free at the same time.”

Donovan nodded, with understanding. 

Greg waved his hand dismissively, “Don’t worry about it Dono, I think we both just need a nice long vacation. No work, no phone calls, no diplomates, just me and my husband on a beach somewhere,” his voice growing dreamy by the end. 

“You do that, boss, you do that,” Donovan said with a fond shake of her head. 

“Come on, let’s go see if Anderson found anything. And hopefully if Sherlock finds anything he’ll tell us.”

“Chances of that are slim, sir,” she said getting into the car. 

“I know,” he sighed.


	2. Chapter 2

“What have we got, Anderson?” 

“Well, sir the woman said she found the man facedown, and he was only moved enough to be turned over. Once she discovered he was dead she immediately called the police. Mark Pritcher’s next of kin was called and he is on his way here. Turn’s out, it’s his life partner, or whatever you call it. His name is Liam Krestner, he’s a civil suits lawyer for some uppity firm.” He said reading off his notes. 

“Damn, Sherlock was right,” Greg murmured. 

“Of course he was,” Donovan chuckled. 

“We’ll have to wait until his partner gets here to ask anymore questions,” Lestrade rubbed his two fingers together and sighed heavily. “It’s going to be a long day, I’m going to get some more coffee. Do you want any?” 

“No thanks boss,” Donovan said, sifting through her notes. 

Anderson too, shook his head and Greg walked out into the cool London air. He shoved his hands into his pockets and hitched his shoulders closer to his ears. He walked brusquely his mind spinning in circles of his newest case. He kept coming to the same conclusion, that it had been a hate crime. Mark Pritcher had made the wrong comment to the wrong person, or maybe he had been seen holding hands with another man. Greg felt his face flush that had nothing to do with the cold.   
He arrived in the coffee shop and was glad to find the lines weren’t long. He got his cup and a banana muffin and sat down and sighed for the hundredth time that day.  
He took a sip and let the warmth of the caffeine flow through him, he felt his phone begin to vibrate. 

He pulled it out and answered it. A lovely voice, warmer than the coffee washed over him. 

“Hey love,” Greg breathed. 

“Hello Gregory, how is your day today?” 

Greg sighed once again, “It’s been a rough day. Sherlock also dropped by, I think he’s going to involve himself in this case.”

“But of course, this case has the beginnings of a serial killer,” Mycroft said almost with sympathy. 

“Oh, Myke don’t say that,” Greg groaned.

“I’m sorry my dear, but it seems to be shaping up to be a particularly difficult case. Perhaps you could speak to John about imploring Sherlock to be a bit more reasonable in nature.”

“Well, if anyone could convince Sherlock to be less of a twat, it would be John,” Greg glanced at his watch with another sigh, “I should go, love.”

“Alright my dear, I will hopefully see you later tonight.”

“Yeah love you.”

“And I you,” with that they hung up. Greg shoved his phone into his pocket and downed the rest of his coffee. 

<><><><><><><><><><>  
“The killer obviously takes sadistic pleasure in their actions. They’re either psychopathic or playing out their own twisted version of revenge,” Sherlock rattled off, “Probably both.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because John, all of the victims that have been targeted are middle aged men with greying or completely grey hair, they have the same color and shape eyes and relatively the same build. In shape of average height and weight,” there was a pause of silence, then Sherlock’s eyes flew open in revelation. 

“They all look like-,”

“-Me,” Greg finished.

John looked between the two, then back to the body and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Shit, they do,” he whispered. 

“That… may be unrelated,” Donovan said weakly. 

“Or, it could be the cause,” Sherlock said and rounded on Greg, “Do you know of anyone that may have a vendetta against you?”

Lestrade thought for a moment, “Well, I mean, there are several people that I’ve put away earlier in my career that are out now. But I can’t imagine they would put themselves in this kind of trouble. Personally, it could be anyone, lots of people hate me,” he said with a shrug.

“That was incredibly unhelpful Lestrade,” Sherlock turned, “Compile a list of all of the people who may wish to kill you or send you this kind of message.”

“But, why the piercing in the tongue?” John asked, stopping Sherlock in his tracks. 

Sherlock turned and motioned to Lestrade’s mouth. 

Somewhat sheepishly, Greg opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out to show a faint scar in the center of his tongue.

“No shit, boss, you were that kind of punk?” Donovan said with a grin. 

“Once upon of time yeah. I was a right dick when I got that done, and drunk off my ass. It wasn’t a small, gold ball though. I had a fake diamond.” 

Sherlock hummed in thought, “That distinction is important. This person knows you well enough that they knew you had a tongue piercing, and chose to change what it was. What significance of the gold ball though is the main question.” 

He walked away past Greg and whispered, “Watch yourself.”

Greg’s mouth pressed into a line and he looked down at the latest victim. Sherlock had been right, he looked like a slightly older version of Greg. 

“Maybe, we should take you off this case, boss,” Sally said quietly. 

“Like hell you are,” Greg growled, “This is my case and if the killer’s got an issue they can take it up with me.”   
<><><><><><><><><><>  
“Greg, I don’t think you should be working on this case.”

Greg’s hand paused, half way between the plate and shoving a piece of stake in his mouth. For a moment neither of them moved, then slowly he put the fork down and crossed his hands. 

“And why is that?” 

Mycroft, for once, seemed to be struggling with what to say. 

“Sherlock has told me that this serial killer is targeting men who look exactly like you.”

“I know love, but I’ll be damned before I’m scared away from the case. If anything, I should be more involved because it’s about me,” he said with a sigh. 

“Greg, I just cannot agree. Whomever this sadistic killer is, they are after you and I…am concerned,” he said the last part as if it physically hurt to say.

“I know,” Greg said getting up and walking over to his husband. He took his hand and pulled him to stand. He pulled the taller man into a hug and buried his face in his collar. 

“I know you’re worried, but I have to do this. I have to,” he whispered. 

Greg felt Mycroft sigh and wrap his arms around his middle and hug him tightly. 

“Just please be careful.”

Mycroft felt Greg smile on his shoulder. 

“Of course.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Fuck, this is getting out of hand.”

The body was strung up on a lamppost like a marionette. His arms wide and stretched out like some fucked up version of Jesus on the cross. The word Inspector was painted on the ground in black and the man wore a lopsided grin carved into the meat of his cheeks. 

“How the hell did anyone set this up without anyone noticing?” Greg growled. 

His hands were shaking fists in his pockets, his shoulders hitched up towards his ears to ward of the cold. It was a lie. He was afraid. This kind of insane shit happened to Sherlock, John, and on occasion Mycroft. Not to Greg, a lowly Detective inspector. Sure he’d had his fair share of crazies in the past, but he always took care of them, or at least Sherlock or Mycroft helped. 

“Greg… I don’t think you should-,” 

“-Don’t John,” Greg’s voice was cold and dangerous. Sherlock refused to look back at the Inspector. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by his emotions, not now.   
He danced around the body, studying the ropes, the face, the cloths, anything. His hands were clenching and unclenching. 

“There’s nothing,” he whispered. 

“What was that Sherlock?” 

“There is nothing,” He shouted. 

The whole of the scene stopped. Donovan, Anderson and the rest of the police force stopped and turned to look at the detective. He was standing hunched over, his hands shoved into his pockets to stop the clenching. John came up behind him and gently lay his hand on his shoulder, only to be shoved off. John was not deterred though, and took Sherlock’s arm in an iron grip and turned him.

“What do you mean Sherlock? Take a breath and explain?” 

He inhaled and let the breath go, his body and head bending with it. He was leaning over closer to the army doctor.

Greg shifted from foot to foot, feeling as though he was watching something private and not for his eyes. He wished, suddenly, to be at home, away from this monstrosity and cruelty. He wants to be in the arms of his own Holmes, safe.

“There is no evidence of anything. Besides the fact that this person is an utter psychopath. They are cold, calculating and ruthless to a point of mechanical precision. They have made no mistakes, no slip up, nothing even remotely a clue as to any idea who they are, what their profession is or even if they’re alone. I can’t get anything from these crime scenes, John.”

He whispered something else, only for the Doctor’s ears. Whatever he said made John’s other hand go to his arm and hold him. He knew Sherlock would never approve of such public displays of affection, so he simply squeezed his arms tighter. 

“I know Sherlock, but he’s safe,” John whispered. 

Greg turned away and looked down, unwilling to look at the body, unwilling to look at anyone else on the street. He stared down at the cold grey stones of the street, the streak of the black word in the corner of his vision. 

<><><><><><><><><><>

When will you be home?-GHL

I am not entirely sure, my dear. America and China are becoming increasingly difficult to deal with at the moment.-MHL

Greg paused, his fingers hovering over the little screen with the little letters. He wondered if Sherlock had told his older brother about the increasingly violent nature of the bodies being found. All of which were related to him in some way or another. 

Alright its no problem. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow-GHL

He hoped that answer didn’t sound as posh and clipped as he thought it did. He really understood why the two of them were finding that it was difficult to find time to spend together. It still hurt though. They hadn’t had a dinner together in weeks and not to mention their monthly date nights were nonexistent now. 

Of course, Darling.-MHL 

Greg sighed and shoved his phone back into his pocket and downed the last of his black coffee with a shudder. He hated black coffee, but after the fiasco with Sherlock he felt like he needed a strong pick-me-up that wasn’t some form of alcohol. 

“Boss…I think you need to go home.”

“I’m fine Donovan, I don’t need to be coddled,” He said, just a bit more bitterly than he’d intended. 

“Greg,” she started in and closed the door behind her, “Whatever happened with Holmes today freaked everybody out. He’s never… just given up like that before.”

“Sherlock doesn’t just give up.” 

“Even so, he was scared. It was obvious and one thing Sherlock Holmes never is, is obvious,” she said with a cross of her arms. 

“Maybe you’re right,” Greg ran a hand over his face and through his hair making it stick up wildly. 

“I’m scared Sally. This whole thing feels.... different… wrong somehow. I don’t know how to explain it but, whoever they are; they’re not just coming after me. I can feel it, this is about the Holmeses, I know it is. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. You develop a fell for this stuff the more you’re around them,” he said and began to pace the room. 

“Ok, Boss, but the answer isn’t just going to come to you. You need to sleep, rest, and eat something other than instant noodles.”

“Sally, I-,” but she interrupted him.

“-No Greg, go home. Rest and come back better tomorrow.”

He sighed and nodded his head, knowing there wasn’t going to be any getting out of this. He gathered up his things and was practically escorted out by Sally. 

Walking home he realized just how late it really was. The moon was on its way back down and the beginnings of the sun were peaking over the horizon. 

“Greg Lestrade?” 

Greg whipped around to face the voice and he was met with a pain exploding in his jaw. The ground came up to meet him and his head smacked against the sidewalk. He blinked several times to get rid of the ring of darkness. Legs took up his vision and he felt several pairs of hands lift him. His last thought before going into the black encompassed how he felt about this entire situation. 

Shit.


	4. Chapter 4

“Mycroft, when was the last time you saw Lestrade?” 

There was a pause. Mycroft pondered for a moment, his eyes narrowing in suspicion and thought. 

“It…has been several days I believe. I informed him, though, that I would be out of town until next week. Why?”

Another pause from his brother’s end.

“Fuck.”

Mycroft froze, his mind jumping to a million different conclusion, each one worse than the last. He waved to Anthea to bring her closer. She waited patiently. 

“What is it Sherlock? What’s happened?” 

“I think… Lestrade has been kidnapped.”

“What…Do you mean, you think?” 

“No one has seen him for several days and considering the last crime scene…” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, Mycroft could hear the guilt dripping from his brother’s words. 

“What are you talking about Sherlock? What crime scene? Exactly how many more have there been?” 

“In total, there have been seven. The first three were simple cases of strangulation, but as they progressed, they became increasingly more violent and…relevant to Lestrade.”

“And what does that mean?” 

“Well, before it was just a suspicion, that the killer was directly calling out Lestrade but the more bodies we found the more they related to him. The last one before his disappearance was particularly…disturbing.” 

Mycroft’s hand on the phone gripped knuckle white. His lips pressed to a thin white line and his brow creased dangerously. 

“Why wasn’t I informed before?” He asked slowly. 

“I don’t know, I thought Lestrade was supposed to tell you what was happening,” there was a pause and a distant voice just out of reach of the cell. 

“John says, he wanted to tell you, but he couldn’t get any time alone with you.” 

Mycroft stood up slowly, “So, he’s saying it’s my fault?” 

“No Mycroft, of course not. Look, just get here ok. Lestrade has officially been labeled as missing and we’ll just have to wait until the kidnappers contact you or the police.” 

Mycroft sighed, “Very well, I’ll be on the next plane to London.” With that they hung up leaving Mycroft alone. Anthea had gone to make the arrangements as soon as the words left his mouth. 

Mycroft stood in the silent room, his mind filled with anything but. He brought the phone closer to him, his hands shaking imperceptibly. His teeth chattered behind his sealed lips. With a visible and audible exhale, he sat down in his chair heavily. His head slowly sank into his hands. 

<><><><><><><><><><>  
“What do you have so far?”

“Hello to you Mr. Holmes,” Sally said quietly. 

“So far, nothing,” Sherlock growled out. “We were able to track Lestrade’s movements from King street but there was a blind spot on the CCTV cameras. There was a nondescript van that pulls up behind Lestrade in the blind spot, but that’s it. That’s all we know. These people were careful, to bloody thorough.”

“Show me.”

Mycroft sat through the video, and it was just as Sherlock had described. He watched his husband disappear out of view and vanish with out a trace. He watched the grainy black van pull up into the blind spot and it was the last they saw of them. 

“What are we doing?” 

“All we can do is wait to be contacted,” Sherlock said. 

Mycroft gazed levelly at his brother, who could only hold his gaze for a short time before he had to look away. Mycroft sighed and looked back at the video. 

“It’s not your fault, Sherlock.” 

“I know that,” but his voice betrayed that he really didn’t believe it.

Mycroft stood up, “I would like to be contacted should anything develop. Here is a number that you can reach me from,” he gave his card to Sally and turned on his heels. 

“You’re leaving?” John asked, his voice full of surprise. 

“I can do nothing here, I will serve myself, Gregory and the rest of England better from my office,” he said coldly. 

John said nothing but it was obvious he was not happy with that answer. So, without further question, Mycroft walked out and into his car. 

He was about an hour into his work when there was a knock on his door. 

“Yes?” 

Anthea walked in, “You have a visitor.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “I thought I instructed not to be disturbed.” 

“You did sir, but she insists she knows you.”

Mycroft sighed and waved his hand, “Very well, let her in.”

Anthea disappeared out of view for a moment and then another woman replaced her. 

She was made of angles, entirely. Her cheeks and nose were sharp and thin, her hair perfectly strait falling into a chestnut frame around her face. Her eyes were bright and steely, like a strip of sheet metal shining in the sun. She walked with an assurance of confidence, and demanded that people move out of her way if she approached. Her nails were curved to a solid white point that rested on her hip comfortable. Her smile was relaxed and her eyes hooded as she looked down at Mycroft.   
“Hello, Mycroft.”

He shot up, his hands gripping his desk. 

“Lucy, what on earth are you doing here?” He hissed. 

“Why Mycroft, aren’t you happy to see me?” She said, her hand over her heart. 

Mycroft sat down, his face a steel façade of blankness. 

“I would kindly ask you to leave my office, Ms. Cruithne,” he said, turning to the documents still on his table. 

Instead she sat down, there was a long pause of uncomfortable silence. Mycroft felt Lucy’s eyes on him as a snake would watch a mouse. 

“So, Mr. Holmes, or is It Holmes-Lestrade.” 

Mycroft’s hands froze, his heart jumping into his throat and his stomach dropping to the floor. 

“What do you want?” 

“Let’s play a game.” 

“A game? What kind of game?” 

“I’ll ask you a question, and depending on whether I like the answer the consequences will go accordingly.”

“Consequences for whom?”

Her widening smile was his only answer, and it was all he needed. While his face was a steel mask of nothing, his hands were clenched beneath his desk so hard his nails were biting into his palms.

“And if I choose not to participate?”

She laughed lightly, the sound like the twinkling of bells. 

“Oh, I think you’ll want to play. You have quite a lot vested on your success.” 

Mycroft’s mouth was pressed thinner in anger, “Very well. Ask your questions.” 

“Don’t sound so cross, I’ll only ask you seven questions. It’ll be quick and fun,” she clucked her tongue. 

“Did you miss me?” She asked leaning back, her nails clicking against the arm. 

Mycroft scoffed, “Hardly.”

Lucy’s brow rose, “Really? I’m only slightly offended.” 

She smiled again, “How did you meet?” 

He didn’t have to ask to know who she was talking about. He debated telling her the truth. Lucy would be able to use whatever information he gave against him, no matter how trivial it seemed. 

“We met through Sherlock. We shared a common interest keeping my brother alive.”

She hummed thoughtfully, seemingly satisfied with that answer. 

“Alright, what was your first date?” 

“We went out to eat at a restaurant in the South of London.”

“Is that all you did?” 

Mycroft briefly went back to that night, of confusion and hesitation. Of heaviness and sex.

“Yes.” 

Lucy tisked and shook her head, “I don’t like being lied to Mycroft,” she held up her hand, her index finger pointing to the ceiling, “That’s one.”

“One what?” Mycroft asked, with a tinge of desperation. He was slowly losing control. 

“You’ll find out, I’m sure,” she said. “Now, how’s the sex?” 

Mycroft flexed his hands below the desk and said pleasantly, “Splendid.”

“Good, good. I hope he hasn’t one upped me too much, but clearly, he’s doing something right. I’d love to see him in action,” she said cheerfully, a sparkle in her eye. 

Mycroft felt violently ill.

“What is your favorite thing about him?”

Mycroft swallowed heavily, “His eyes.” 

“Oh, I’ll remember that. Now, what would you give to keep him safe?”

His eyes tightened and his teeth ground together, “Anything.”

She smiled sweetly, kindly, “And tell me, do you love him?” 

“Yes.” 

Her smile widened and she laughed. 

“This is wonderful Mycroft. Oh, how I have missed our little games,” she stood up, “I look forward to more.”

“Of course, Mrs. Cruithne,” he said with a neutral nod of his head. 

She sashayed away, her hair swinging behind her. She closed the door behind her softly and her white smile was the last thing he saw of her. 

Mycroft took a moment to gather himself and then immediately took out his phone.

“Sherlock, do you remember Lucy Cruithne?”


	5. Chapter 5

Greg woke slowly and knew immediately that something was wrong. For one, his head hurt like he went on a week long bender, for second it smelled like cinnamon.  
He opened his eyes and was surprised to find that he wasn’t in a warehouse or in a dimly lit room. Instead, it was bright and modern. The décor was stylish and functional, there were smatterings of random knick-knacks, though it still felt quite bare. He was not restrained in the chair he was sitting in.  
He stood up slowly, looking around. He worried his lip in suspicion. He walked to the door, listening for any type of sound. He slowly tried the door handle, only to find it locked. He deflated with a frustrated sigh.  
“Don’t know what I was expecting,” he murmured.  
So, with nothing else to do, he decided to start examining the room. He walked and gazed at the bookshelves, full of big grey law books and books on politics. It almost looked like filler, the same book was repeated at least three more times. He moved on to the desk it was mostly bare, with the exception of a small bird full of sloshing blue liquid that would move towards the head, making it dip its beak into the water.  
Greg watched it for a moment before he went around and tried to open he drawers. With a frustrated grunt, he found them locked.  
“Well, what the hell,” he threw up his hands in annoyance and tried to look for anything he could use as a weapon. For a brief time, he contemplated using a book, but he dismissed the idea as being silly.  
“Why are there no fucking windows.”  
“Terribly sorry about that.”  
Greg jumped visibly and turned to see a beautiful woman standing in front of the closed door.  
“Where the hell did you come from?”  
She motioned behind her at the door and then to the chair. She sat down behind the desk and smiled at him kindly.  
“Hello, Mr. Lestrade, my name is Lucy. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?” Her voice was patient and kind.  
“I need to know where the hell I am, and what I’m doing here.”  
“Please Mr. Lestrade, if you’ll just sit down I’ll explain,” she was imploring, almost desperate.  
He sat down cautiously, watching her closely.  
“Well, Mr. Lestrade, I don’t know where to begin,” she said almost sadly, “I suppose I should say that I too am a prisoner of some odd villain.”  
“What? Then why are you talking to me?” He asked incredulously.  
“Well, I’m the middle man, I suppose. They tell me what they want said to you, and I say it. I was originally just a receptionist for a bank, but then they just showed up at my house and told me to go with them under threat of gun,” she could see that he was going to ask more questions so she held up her hand, “Wait, Mr. Lestrade, let me get this all out on the table. You’ve been kidnapped for your association with one Mycroft Holmes. Now, I don’t know why exactly, but I would assume it was to demand something, information or money perhaps.”  
She gave him several moments to digest this new and rather shocking information. When it looked as if he was ready to accept more, she continued.  
“I’ve been instructed to ask you seven questions,” she took out a notebook and began to flip through it.  
“Why?”  
“I…I’m not sure, I didn’t really bother asking considering they were holding a gun to my head. You’ll forgive me for not pressing the matter I’m sure,” she said with a wry smile.  
“And if I choose not to answer them?” He asked, crossing his arms.  
For the first time she looked fearful, “I believe that I will be the one met with punishment then.”  
Greg sighed and weighed his options, even though he knew he really had one. He could not and would not allow an innocent woman to be hurt under his fault.  
“Alright, ask your questions,” he said with a resigned sigh.  
She looked very relieved, “Thank you Mr. Lestrade,” she said kindly, “Now, onto the first question.”  
“Do you think Mr. Holmes is going to come for you?”  
The question took Greg by surprise.  
“I sure as hell hope so,” he said with a curious frown.  
Lucy hummed and wrote down his answer with a quick scribble.  
“Ok, next question, Are you happy with your life?”  
Greg sat back and crossed his arms, “What kind of questions are these?”  
Lucy shrugged, “I don’t know Mr. Lestrade, I just do what they tell me. But you do have to answer or there’ll be consequences.”  
“Okay… Yeah, I’d say I’m pretty happy. I mean, my life’s nothing special, you know. I just go to my job and do the best I can, I guess.”  
Her pen was going as he was talking and he assumed she was taking down everything he said word for word.  
“Are you happy with your marriage?”  
Greg swallowed hard and wared with himself and the answer.  
“Yes, I am.”  
Lucy closed her notebook and looked around, as if making sure they weren’t being watched. She leaned forward and smiled kindly.  
“Are you sure? You seemed very hesitant.”  
“Well,” he began, and wondered why he felt he could trust this woman. There was such an air about her, like she would take his secrets to the grave.  
“It’s just that, I’m not sure if our marriage is holding out, you know?”  
She remained quiet and motioned for him to continue.  
“I feel like, sometimes I’m not good enough for him. Him and his brother are both really smart gits. And by smart, I mean, able to tell you where you live, what you do, and if you’re having a bloody affair, smart. He’s so…important too. The whole world could fall at his command, and I barely make a dent in it.”  
“You feel inadequate?” Lucy asked.  
“I suppose,” Greg said with a frown, “I’m almost jealous. Don’t get me wrong, I still love him. I’d bloody die for that man, but sometimes I wonder if I’m just waiting for him to get tired of me. Like, one day I’m going to find all of my things packed and him sending me out the door.”  
“You’re a grand man, Mr. Lestrade. Any man would be lucky to have you and I think you should give yourself more credit. If he married you, I think he’d stick with you, right?” Lucy said with kindness and she reached across and took his hand.  
“Thanks Lucy, you’re pretty grand yourself.”  
She smiled widely and sat back, “Ok, final question, how long have you been married?”  
“Three years,” Greg answered simply.  
She wrote it down and close the little book with a snap. She stood up and shook his hand and headed for the door.  
“Thank you, Mr. Lestrade, I’ll see you soon.”  
“I’ll get us both out, Lucy. I promise I will.”  
She smiled, “I hope so.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still learning all of the aspects of AO3 so I hope you have patients.

“Hello?”

“Hello Mycroft,” He sat straight up and motioned to his brother.

“Lucy, what can I do for you?”

“You have an appointment with me that you cannot afford to miss,” her voice was soft, but there was an undercurrent of threat.

“Of course, I’ll be there.”

“Tick Tock, Mycroft,” she hung up with an authoritative click.

Mycroft lowered his phone slowly, aware of the eyes watching him.

“Well?”

“She says that I have a meeting with her at my office,” he said as he began to gather his things.

“Well, why don’t we go arrest her. At least on suspicion. We have no idea where Greg is, and we’re not getting anywhere,” John cried with frustration.

Both Sherlock and Mycroft shook their heads.

“Who knows what will happen if we allow the police to go after her. She cannot be properly motivated to hurt Gregory,” Mycroft said, his voice final. Yet only his younger brother was able to sense more than hear the slight tremor in his words and hands.

“Is she really that dangerous?”

Mycroft spun on John so quickly that Sherlock nearly jumped between them.

“Lucy Cruithne is a cruel, bloodthirsty, and utterly unremorseful woman. She is cold, calculating and ruthless. She could break you down, John Watson, and destroy you completely. You thought Moriarty was dangerous? He’s nothing but a spoiled child compared to Lucy Cruithne. She will take everything you love and dangle it in front of your face, allowing you just within reach before she rips everything away and mangles it beyond recognition. Do you understand now, you simple little man?”

Mycroft’s hands were clenched, white around his umbrella and coat. He could feel himself losing control, but with each passing day, each passing hour, he found he didn’t care. Greg was in the hands of the most dangerous woman in the world and there was not a damn thing he could to about it. John’s mouth hung open and Sherlock took his shoulder and stepped in front of him.

“Never speak to John like that again,” he growled lowly in his brother’s face.

Mycroft seemed taken aback for a moment before his features regained their control. They were softer, not as cold, not as sharp. He looked past his brother’s shoulder.

“I apologize Doctor, I am not myself at the moment, please forgive me.”

John shook his head, “Nothing to forgive Mycroft. I know you’re worried, we all are; but I’m sure this must be…awful for you.”

With that he walked out past the brothers and onto Baker street.

“Are you going to be alright?”

“Of course, Sherlock. I’m going to be fine.”

<><><><><><><><><><>

He entered his office to find her waiting for him. Her legs crossed and her arms draped over the side of the chair.

“Hello Mycroft, you certainly kept me waiting.”

“I apologize Ms. Cruithne,” he said as he sat, “I had no idea we had a meeting scheduled.”

“Well, we’ll be having several meetings after this one. I do so love talking with you, my old friend,” her bloody painted lips opened into a smile.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Cruithne?” Mycroft said coldly.

“Oh so formal, as always Myke,” Mycroft flinched internally at the nickname. He hadn’t heard it from her mouth in a long, long while. The last person to have called him that was…his husband.

“Don’t worry, no questions this time. This meeting is simple, all you have to do is listen,” she took out a small black box and pressed a button. “Just to make sure we don’t have an audience,” she said.

Mycroft assumed that she had just disrupted any of his recording devices. He sighed internally, his frustration was building the more time he spent with this woman, but he couldn’t let on how much she was affecting him.

“This was just a little something I’m working on,” she said and pushed another button, “You do know how I love to act.”

_“Why are there no fucking windows.”_

Mycroft’s hands began to shake under the table and his stomach jumped into his throat. His husband’s voice rang around the room. Mycroft was almost ashamed at how much it ached to hear his Gregory’s voice.

_“Terribly sorry about that.”_

He looked up at the woman, her smile was wide, showing bright rows of white teeth. Her eyes crinkled in delight and excitement.

_“Where the hell did you come from?”_

There were sounds of movement, a scraping chair.

_“Hello, Mr. Lestrade, my name is Lucy. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”_

Mycroft felt anger boil in his stomach. Such a liar. 

_“I need to know where the hell I am, and what I’m doing here.”_

“ _Please Mr. Lestrade, if you’ll just sit down I’ll explain.”_

Another sound of scraping chairs.

_“Well, Mr. Lestrade, I don’t know where to begin. I suppose I should say that I too am a prisoner of some odd villain.”_

Mycroft’s anger burst, now he just felt sick. He stared at the woman before him. Appraising her, judging her.

_“What? Then why are you talking to me?”_

He felt pride for his husband. Greg was no fool to be easily persuaded. But of course his husband always had a soft spot for the victims in distress.

_“Well, I’m the middle man, I suppose. They tell me what they want said to you, and I say it. I was originally just a receptionist for a bank, but then they just showed up at my house and told me to go with them under threat of gun. Wait, Mr. Lestrade, let me get this all out on the table. You’ve been kidnapped for your association with one Mycroft Holmes. Now, I don’t know why exactly, but I would assume it was to demand something, information or money perhaps.”_

“What bullshit,” Mycroft whispered.

Lucy’s smile grew wider.

_“I’ve been instructed to ask you seven questions.”_

Mycroft mentally prepared himself for the same questions, his mind already conjuring the exact way in which his love would answer.

_“Why?”_

_“I…I’m not sure, I didn’t really bother asking considering they were holding a gun to my head. You’ll forgive me for not pressing the matter I’m sure.”_

It irritate him to no end, how good Lucy was. If he didn’t know the real her, he would have believed the lie.

_“And if I choose not to answer them?”_

He could imagine his husband, his beautiful Gregory sitting in defiance, his arms crossed a frown marring his features.

_“I believe that I will be the one met with punishment then.”_

He scoffed.

_“Alright, ask your questions.”_

“Oh, Gregory,” Mycroft whispered in a moment of weakness.

_“Thank you Mr. Lestrade. Now, onto the first question, do you think Mr. Holmes is going to come for you?”_

Mycroft’s hand balled into fists.

“ _I sure as hell hope so.”_

There was a sound of a pen scratching at paper and Lucy’s voice humming.

_“Ok, next question, Are you happy with your life?”_

_“What kind of questions are these?”_

Good Gregory, be defiant.

_“I don’t know Mr. Lestrade, I just do what they tell me. But you do have to answer or there’ll be consequences.”_

Mycroft could feel the threat through the recording, he almost felt as if I were for him specifically and not for his husband.

_“Okay… Yeah, I’d say I’m pretty happy. I mean, my life’s nothing special, you know. I just go to my job and do the best I can, I guess.”_

You do so much more than that, love. Mycroft focused on the sound of the pen scratching filling the room.

_“Are you happy with your marriage?”_

There was far too much of a pause for his liking. His heart began to beat faster, fear taking control somewhere in the back of his mind.

_“Yes, I am.”_

Mycroft could hear the lie and he felt sick.

_“Are you sure? You seemed very hesitant.”_

“What the hell are you playing at,” He spat. But Lucy just held up her hand and smiled.

_“Well, It’s just that, I’m not sure if our marriage is holding out, you know?”_

Mycroft could feel his world crumbling around him.

_“I feel like, sometimes I’m not good enough for him. Him and his brother are both really smart gits. And by smart, I mean, able to tell you where you live, what you do, and if you’re having a bloody affair, smart. He’s so…important too. The whole world could fall at his command, and I barely make a dent in it.”_

Mycroft’s heart clenched in shame and pain. How could he have not known this? How could he have let it get this far? He felt more than saw Lucy’s predatory eyes on him. His face was still cold, he showed nothing, he couldn’t afford to.

_“You feel inadequate?”_

_“I suppose, I’m almost jealous. Don’t get me wrong, I still love him. I’d bloody die for that man, but sometimes I wonder if I’m just waiting for him to get tired of me. Like, one day I’m going to find all of my things packed and him sending me out the door.”_

I would never do that, My dear Gregory. Never.

_“You’re a grand man, Mr. Lestrade. Any man would be lucky to have you and I think you should give yourself more credit. If he married you, I think he’d stick with you, right?”_

_“Thanks Lucy, you’re pretty grand yourself.”_

Mycroft had never before felt such a depth of hate and anger directed at one person before. He wondered if it would be worth it to strangle her.

_“Ok, final question, how long have you been married?”_

“ _Three years.”_

Mycroft had never felt so exposed to anyone before.

_“Thank you, Mr. Lestrade, I’ll see you soon.”_

_“I’ll get us both out, Lucy. I promise I will.”_

Mycroft felt his heart go out to his trapped husband, completely unaware of the real danger he was in. Even so, his desire to save this woman he saw in trouble.

_“I hope so.”_

Lucy sat back, her smile so self-satisfied it made Mycroft sick to his stomach to look at it. He swallowed and sat back. His voice was calm and steady, conversational even.

“What are you hoping to accomplish?”

Lucy shrugged, “I’m fairly certain I already have.”

She stood up and made for the door. Before she opened it, she turned.

“You and your husband should think about counselling,” her smile was utterly cruel, “I’d be happy to help.”

“Why are you doing this Lucy? Gregory has nothing to do with our past. It has nothing to do with him, please just let him go,” he could hear the words and wondered when he felt himself crumble, desperate.

“He has everything to do with us Myke. Besides, I quite enjoy the Inspector’s company,” with that she walked out.

There was silence, Mycroft felt numb, empty, yet so full of emotion he didn’t know what to do with. So he bent over, his head in his hands. For the first time since he was a young child Mycroft Holmes cried.


	7. Chapter 7

“Sherlock, enough pacing,” Mycroft sighed. 

His brother didn’t bother even paying him any mind. He continued making a trench in the carpet floor, his hands behind his back clenching and unclenching with pent up energy. Sherlock’s entire body was as tight as a violin bow, just moments away from snapping. 

John sat in his chair, idly sipping his tea, hands white around the mug. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft growled. 

He continued to pace and once again Mycroft sighed. 

“Sherlock, you’re not doing any good. You’re just wearing yourself out,” John murmured. 

Finally, he stopped, looked at the two of them and shook his head. He looked up at the ceiling and continued pacing, mumbling to himself. 

“I’ll just see myself out then,” Mycroft said, gathering his things. 

“Mycroft, I…don’t think you should be alone right now,” John said, standing as well. 

Sherlock continued to pace. 

“I’m no use here, Dr. Watson.”

“Even so Mycroft, we’re all concerned about-,” but Mycroft cut him off with a wave of his hand and a biting voice. 

“I’m well aware, Doctor. However, you should not concern yourself with me,” He walked to the door and bid the doctor and his brother a good day. 

Just as he was turning down the stairs he heard his brother’s voice echo out of the crack in the door, he stopped. 

“I don’t know what to do, John.”

“I know, but we’ll find him Sherlock, we always have.”

There was a slight pause. 

“What if we don’t,” only a slight whisper. 

“I-I don’t know Sherlock, I just don’t know.” 

Mycroft could not stand to be there anymore. He walked down the stairs and out into the streets far faster than he had intended. The London air filled his lungs, grounding him. 

<><><><><><><><><><>

“Hello, Inspector,” Lucy said with a sympathetic but bright smile. 

“Lucy, hey, are you ok? Did they hurt you?” 

She shook her head and sat down. 

“I-I have some bad news,” she began quietly, her smile disappearing. 

“What do you mean?” Greg sat down, worry coloring his tone. 

“You’ve been pronounced dead, and the police have stopped actively looking for you,” she said, her eyes were filling. 

Greg sat back so hard the chair moved and his back screamed in protest. 

“What?” Only came out in a whisper. 

“Oh, Greg I’m so sorry,” she cried, tears trailing down her cheeks. “I wish…wish there was something I could do.”

Greg sat, body completely numb, his mind still reeling. He felt like the meager meal he had eaten earlier would come back to meet him. 

“H-How long have I been here?” 

“Two months,” she whispered. 

“What?”

There was a moment of silence as Lucy allowed him to absorb that information. Suddenly he exploded from the chair. 

“What!” 

Lucy shrank back in fear, her arms going around her, hugging her body. 

“I-I’m sorry,” she cried. 

“Two months,” he said pacing like a caged tiger, “I’ve been in this fucking place for two bloody months!” 

He paced for a few minutes his hand dragging and pulling at his hair. 

“There’s no way. There’s no fucking way that’s possible. Not possible. No.”

“I…They put you in here on purpose Greg. There’s no windows, no clocks, and they’ve been feeding you sporadically,” Lucy said sinking back into her chair. 

“Fuck, your right,” he stopped and stared at her, “Why would they have you tell me then?”

“M-Maybe to make you feel like they weren’t coming for you,” she said. 

Greg’s body stopped, so did his mind. 

“Maybe they’re not. They’ve bloody stopped looking, haven’t they. I-I can’t believe they’d stop looking for me,” he shook his head, “No. Mycroft would never stop. Never. And Sherlock’s a twat, sure, but he’s my friend, he and John wouldn’t just give up.”

Lucy gave him an odd look, he couldn’t quite understand what it meant. 

She stood up and moved around the table and took his hands. She looked at him imploringly. 

“Don’t lose sight of that, Greg. But, now that you’ve been labeled dead, what use do they have for you,” she said. 

Greg’s eyes widened in surprise. 

“I’m sorry, that was cruel, but…I’m trying to be realistic. I overheard them once, talking about how they had asked for money from Mycroft Holmes, but he refused to give it to them. That was about a month ago. They’ve kept you alive, I just don’t know why.” 

“You’re right, Lucy. My time here has run out. I need to get out now or never and I need your help,” Greg said grasping her hands in return.

“M-Me?” she said trying to draw back, “I don’t think I can…” 

Greg held on, “Please Lucy, I need you to be brave for me. Give me anything you can about what you see outside of this room. Anything,” he hated sounding desperate, but he was. 

Lucy remained silent for several tense moments, before she finally nodded hesitantly. 

“I’ll do my best.”

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. She turned to it, her eyes filled with fear. 

“I have to go now,” she squeezed his hands and left, the door locking shut behind her. 

<><><><><><><><><><>

“Hello Ms. Cruithne.”

“Hello Mycroft,” she said as she daintily sat in the chair behind his desk. 

Mycroft closed the door and remained standing in front of it, as far from her as he possibly could be. 

“There has been an interesting development,” Lucy said, cleaning her nails. 

Mycroft felt a sting of fear, “Yes? That would be?” 

“Well, I’ve decided that things need to be moved along. It’s been, what? Three weeks?”

Mycroft only nodded.

“I’ve decided,” she said standing and walking towards him, “things need to get a bit more,” she leaned in, “physical.”

Mycroft swallowed hard, “Explain.” 

“Well,” she said twirling away, “I rather like your inspector, and I want to see his pretty face when it’s in pain,” she sat back behind his desk. 

Mycroft mouth opened that smallest but, his teeth clenching. Powerless.

“I never knew you as someone to get her hands dirty,” his voice was cool, ice, frozen steel. 

Lucy laughed, “Oh no, my associate is more in that business. She did quite enjoy…dealing with those other men,” she said with an obvious wink. 

“She?”

“Oh, yes, a dear friend of mine. It’s rather funny actually, we met through our mutual association with Moriarty. It’s so rare to find a woman whose so good with her hands, she instantly stood out to me,” her smile was wide, like they’d just shared an inside joke. She stood up once again and walked over to him, her hand on the door. 

“What are you going to do to him?” His voice slipping. “Please Lucy.”

She leaned in and smiled, “Whatever will make him scream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Torture in the next chapter. We're getting down to the wire. Thank you for reading and for all the wonderful comments. I love reading them and they keep me going.


	8. Chapter 8

“Hello Mr. Lestrade, my name is Margaret.”

Greg turned and saw a stern, tall woman with black hair pulled into a small pony tail. Her arms were constrained in a tight suit coat and her legs were together in a pencil skirt. 

“Hello?” Greg felt more than a bit hesitant. This woman wasn’t like Lucy. Where Lucy was warm and kind, this woman looked cold and distant. 

“Where’s Lucy?” 

“I’m afraid there’s been a shift of power,” she adjusted her glasses and sat down behind the desk. 

“My business partner does not believe we are moving fast enough, and I am inclined to agree. So, I’m afraid we’re going to have to be a little cliché.” 

She tapped on the desk three times and two large men in black slipped into the room. They forced him into the chair and tied his hands to the arms. 

“Mr. Lestrade, you are going to sit in this chair and answer any questions that I ask of you. If you do not you will be forced to release this button,” she held up a small black box, “In doing so, you will be administered an electric shock. With each question that you refuse to answer the voltage of the shock will increase.”

The men removed his shirt and began hooking small electrodes into his skin. It was a brief pinch that stung, but he looked at the woman across from him defiantly. 

“What’s stopping me from never pressing the button?” 

“Good question, glad you asked,” she motioned to the men and they left. There was a moment of silence before they returned with Lucy between them, looking scared. 

“Lucy,” Greg cried. 

“I-I’m ok,” she said, her voice shaking. 

The right man raised a gun to her head and the hammer clicked. Lucy looked near tears now. 

“It’s up to you Mr. Lestrade,” Margaret said with a shrug. 

“Fine.” 

She simply nodded and handed him the little black box, which the other man hooked onto the wires connected to his body. 

“First question, what is your relationship to Mycroft Holmes?”

“He’s my husband,” Greg answered lowly. 

Margaret nodded and wrote the answer down in her notebook. Lestrade felt a strong sense of déjà vu. This time though, his stomach was twisting nervously and he no longer felt comfortable. Lucy’s questions were asked with sincerity, patients. Margaret was very different. 

“What does Mr. Holmes do for a living?” 

“He holds a minor position in the government,” Lestrade said. He’d rehearsed these words a hundred times before. 

Margaret’s pen paused and she looked up. 

“A minor position?” 

Greg said nothing, but nodded and swallowed hard. He was doing his best not to be utterly obvious, he’s never been good at poker. 

“I’ve been told differently,” she wrote something down and glanced to Lucy and the men. “I would kindly ask you to answer truthfully or not at all,” there was a sound of the hammer of a gun and Lucy’s small whimper.

Greg sighed heavily and let go of the button. The shock was sudden and biting. His limbs shook violently against his will. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was more than enough to leave him panting. 

“I do hope that you’ve realized the situation and choose to answer the questions,” Margaret said flatly. 

Lestrade grit his teeth feeling the air whistle through past his lips in whooshing gasps. He had so many things he wanted to say, but he also wanted to keep himself and Lucy alive. 

“Now then,” Margaret looked back down to her book, “What is your emotional relationship with Sherlock Holmes?”

“Emotional relationship?” He frowned. 

“How would you describe your relationship with the younger Holmes brother?”

“We’re friends, we work together, he’s my brother in law.”

Margaret wrote slowly and took her time. Greg squeezed hard on the button and wondered if he could break it. He flexed his left hand, his entire body already sore from the small shock. 

“What would you say is a weakness of Sherlock Holmes?”

Greg grit his teeth and let go of the button.

Blinding white flashed through him. His hands clenched spasmodically and his legs trembled. His head whipped to his right shoulder and he bit his shoulder to keep from screaming. It stopped suddenly, leaving Greg gasping, his head hanging on his chest

“You must be very good friends with Sherlock,” Margaret said conversationally. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Greg spat through his teeth.

For the first time Margaret smiled. It was terrifying. 

“What is Mycroft’s greatest weakness?”

Greg rolled his eyes and let go of the button. 

At this point Greg couldn’t tell if he blacked out. He opened his eyes again, the lights much too bright as the headache pounded through his head. He slowly wiped off the small line of spit from his chin. The tremble never left his hands now. 

“Tell me anything about either of the Holmes Brothers and we’ll be done here. Anything at all. A small detail, they’re favorite food, they’re favorite color, where they get their coffee. I don’t care, give me anything,” Margaret stood and rounded the desk towards him. 

Greg wasn’t stupid. This mundane little question was more than it seemed. He remembered Mycroft confessing that Moriarty had done the same thing and he’d used it against his little brother. No matter the information, even if it seemed simple or pedestrian he knew it could be used against them. 

He stared into the Bitch’s eyes and let go of the button. 

His world was a flash of color and pain before he sank into the dark. 

Margaret watched the D.I.’s body spasm, his arms and head whipping this way and that before he finally settled. She gripped his hair and wrenched his head up. His mouth hung open and a small drop of blood dripped from his nose past his lips. She sighed and let him go. 

“I wasn’t expecting much to be honest,” Lucy said with a smile. 

“Neither was I.”

“I did enjoy seeing him dance though.”

Lucy walked around and smiled down at the body of the inspector. 

“We won’t be keeping him for much longer. We’ll have to be subtle, though my dear Margey,” Lucy said wrapping her arm around the taller woman’s waist. 

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait. I've just finished midterms so I'll be back on the regular schedule soon. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy.


	9. Chapter 9

“I noticed you haven’t brought me another tape to listen to,” Mycroft said absently, like he was talking about the weather.   
Lucy’s smile said she wasn’t fooled. “Have you not enjoyed our talks?”   
“But of course, Lucy. I have always enjoyed your company,” he said, not even bothering to hide the heavy sarcasm. “I would simply like to know the state of my husband.”  
“He’s alive,” She said mildly.  
“That is not enough,” Mycroft said coolly.  
Lucy laughed, “It will have to be.” She stood with a sigh and went to the door. “I’ll see myself out then shall I. Same time next week?”   
Mycroft sat in the silence of his office and was never so aware of being alone. Slowly, he stood and went to Anthea.  
“I want someone outside of Diogenes to follow her when she leaves, the next time she is here.”  
Anthea simply nodded and tapped away at her phone.   
He straightened his suit and walked out of his office and into the hallway. For a moment, something compelled him to stop. He couldn’t explain what it was, almost like an instinct, a sinking feeling. He gazed down the hall, his office at the end of it. Doors to different rooms were lined up one after each other, all tastefully furbished. Very few of them had windows, though. Mycroft had waited nearly a year for his office with the nicest view. He enjoyed the sunlight, it made him feel oddly nostalgic.   
The feeling left him almost as soon as it appeared, and he continued on. The entire building was in silence, the only sound was his faint footsteps as they squished into the carpet. The Diogenes prided itself on its number one rule of silence, so of course, each room was entirely sound proof. Mycroft wouldn’t be surprised if a bomb went off and he didn’t know about it.  
He paused at the front door, his hand clutching on the cold metal. There was a train of thought, but he couldn’t understand where it was going. He’d lost it.   
Mycroft shook his head.   
Days upon days of staying up in his empty office, refusing to go home. Barely eating to the point that even Sherlock was texting him occasionally to remind him. He could only just summon the energy and the will to do so. The only thing keeping him going was his work and the silly, foolish hope that Greg would make it back to him alive. Each day that passed with no word, the more that hope slipped through his fingers like sand.   
He practically threw open the glass door and stepped out into the cold air. It was snowing.   
<><><><><><><><><><>  
“Well Mr. Lestrade, how do you feel?” Margaret said with that painted smile.   
Feeling rather bold he spat on the floor at her feet. She looked down, rather unimpressed and shook her head.   
“Mr. Lestrade, I do so hope you understand the situation you are in,” she said sitting down and crossing her arms.   
Greg laughed in her face, “Look lady. You can ask me all the questions you want, but it’s not gonna do anything. I am not going to say a goddam thing, so you can stop asking.”  
“You realize no one is coming for you,” she said leaning forward.   
“I don’t think you realize who you are messing with. This is Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, two of the smartest gits to have ever lived. Sherlock was willing to fake his bloody death in order to protect his friends, and you can be damn well sure that Mycroft would raise heaven and hell to find me, dead or alive. They’re both coming for me and when they find me, you can be sure as hell they’re going to find you,” Greg spat back.   
He was quite proud of the fact that he could actually string so many words together without gasping for air. His chest and ribs still hurt like a bitch from the shocking, and his whole body just ached. All he wanted to do was go home and sleep, maybe have a cheeseburger. He knew he had to stay strong though, Mycroft and Sherlock had to be looking for him. They had to be, and that knowledge kept him going for however long he had left.   
He and Margaret stared at one another, neither blinking, neither looking away. Margaret’s eyes were cold and empty, Greg’s were burning.   
Finally, she sighed and stood.   
“I can see that we are going to get nothing further out of you Mr. Lestrade,” she circled the table and went to the door.   
“Goodbye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to apologize for the huge delay. I was spending all of November on my novel, but then I fell into a kind of writer's block/depression. I've been having a tough month so far, but writing this has made me feel a little better. I hope you all enjoy it even though it's my shortest chapter. There won't be much left after this.


	10. Chapter 10

“There is something we’re missing,” Mycroft whispered to himself more than anyone else in the room. Sherlock heard him and turned with an exasperated sigh. 

“Lucy has covered her tracks enough that she is nearly impossible to find. The CCTVs around the club show that she never leaves the damn building. They also don’t show any signs of tampering so, how the hell does she get out without anyone noticing?” Sherlock snarled. 

“Maybe there’s a basement or something,” John adds, just to say something. 

Mycroft shook his head, “No such thing exists in the building.”

“She must leave somehow,” Sherlock spat and sprang out of his chair, and began to make a lap around the room. 

“Well, maybe she never leaves,” John said. 

“Don’t be ridiculous John. Why wouldn’t she…” But Sherlock trailed off. He stared straight at the wall, blinking several times. 

“That’s it!” Both Mycroft and Sherlock said at the same time. 

“That’s why she refused to let me see him. She was afraid I would recognize the room. It makes so much sense. The rooms are soundproof and no one asks any questions, but how on earth did she get him in there without anyone noticing?” Sherlock rambled.  
The older brother sprang up, ignoring his brother and rushed downstairs. 

“Wait, Mycroft,” he barely heard Sherlock calling after him, but he was already in his car and heading back to the club. The car ride was tense, and he fidgeted relentlessly, his knee bounced a near constant rhythm and his hands tapped furiously. He knew he could rely on his brother and John to relay the information to the police, but he couldn’t wait that long. Instead he dialed his phone. 

“Hello, this is Anthony Ney speaking,” the voice answered. 

“Anthony, it’s Mycroft,” he said hurriedly. 

“Ah, Mycroft, how are you? How’s your brother?”

“Fine, fine,” his voice far more impatient than he meant it to be. “Have there been any knew installations at the Diogenes in the past month or so?”

Ney hummed in thought and took far longer than Mycroft’s liking to answer. “Come to think of it yes. In fact, she was the first woman to be introduced into the Diogenes club. Quite a nice lady I might add.”

“What was her name and what room does she occupy?” 

“Why, Mycroft, I can’t give out that information, you should know better,” but he was cut off rather viciously. 

“Tell me, Ney or I will destroy your career,” Mycroft spat. 

There was a long moment of silence, “Lucy Cruithne, room seven.”

Mycroft felt his fingers go numb, the phone slipping and falling to the floor with a thump. He swallowed hard and slowly his hands and his head met. He was shaking, almost violently. 

“Down the hall. They’ve been down the hall from me this whole time,” he whispered, almost unable to believe it. 

Finally, they rolled up to the Diogenes and Mycroft was out of the car like a shot. He took the stairs two by two and practically ran down the hall. Everything was moving slower than he could process, himself included. Men passed him and eyed him strangely, he must have looked half mad, but he hardly cared. He was going to find his husband if it killed him. Finally, he reached the door, he gripped it tightly, only to find it locked. He gave an outraged cry of frustration. 

“Something wrong, Myke,” Lucy was standing next to him, a woman standing behind her. 

“You,” he spat, “I know my husband is in this room, let me see him now.”

She clicked her tongue and shook her head, but motioned for the woman to unlock the door. She did so, and Mycroft practically exploded inside. As he’d thought, his husband was sitting in a chair, looking worse for wear but alive. 

Greg’s head shot up and his eyes widened as much as the bruises would allow. 

“Mycroft,” It was a quiet desperate whisper. Tears slipped out of the bloodshot eyes and down his colored cheeks. 

Mycroft wasted no time as he crossed the room in three strides and was kneeling beside his husband fumbling with his restraints. 

“Gregory, I found you,” whispered like a prayer, “I found you. Finally.”

“So beautiful,” Lucy said with a condescending smile. She clapped slowly. “It took you long enough to figure it out. I was beginning to think I wasn’t obvious enough.”

“Let him go,” Mycroft said standing up in front of him. “You’ve had your fun, but enough is enough. He has nothing to do with what was between us.”

“I think you mean, ‘us’ considering that you just walked into my hands, and who am I to pass up the perfect opportunity. Now Mycroft, you are going to play nice and keep quiet. We are leaving,” Lucy said clapping her hands like a child in excitement. 

“You are mad if you think I’m going anywhere with you,” Mycroft said, hefting his chin high. 

Lucy sighed and rolled her eyes. She waved her hand and Margaret raised her gun. 

“Look, here’s the options Myke, you can either die here and I take Lestrade alone, or you can come with us and see what happens for yourself,” she said. 

Mycroft chewed his lip, a bad habit he’d picked up as a child. 

“How do you propose to get us out of here without anyone noticing?” Mycroft countered trying to stall for time.

“Yes or no,” was all she said, and Margaret clicked off the safety. 

“Very well, I will do as you say,” Mycroft said, his voice and face stone. 

“Dammit,” Greg said behind him. 

Mycroft turned and knelt before him. His husband sounded so tired and he wished he could bring him home now. He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to watch as Margaret brought out a wheelchair from seemingly nowhere. She placed it next to Lestrade and a bundle of cloths. She cut his restraints and threw the bundle into his lap. 

“Put those on,” she commanded. 

Greg hesitated and glanced up at Mycroft, who nodded just the smallest bit. 

Lestrade pulled on the heavy coat, hat, and sunglasses, feeling silly. He held up the blanket, a bit unsure. 

“Get in the chair,” Margaret motioned to the wheel chair. Greg sat slowly in the chair, his body still aching and protesting. He placed the blanket over his lap. 

With a pang of sorrow and regret, Mycroft realized he could barely recognize it was Greg. Sherlock or he could see through the meagre disguise in seconds, but the normal lay person would have trouble. 

“You will be pushing him,” Lucy said her eyes bright with amusement. Mycroft had never hated another person more than he did now. “Remember, no funny business,” she said with a happy grin. 

“Lucy, I don’t understand,” Greg said, looking between them. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said like she was speaking to a small child, “This all must be so strange and confusing. I’m the one who put you here.”

Greg’s eyes widened and then he closed them tightly, his fists balled. “Of course, of course. How could I have been so stupid?”

“Aw Greg, don’t beat yourself up. I’m just that good,” she winked and motioned to the door, “Shall we?”

Mycroft took hold of the handles of the chair with on hand and his husband’s shoulder with the other. Slowly he pushed out and into the hallway. He began to head towards the front when Lucy stopped him. 

“We’ll be going out the back,” she said happily like she wasn’t kidnapping two people. 

“There is no back,” Mycroft frowned. 

“Handicapped entrance,” she said with a wink and led the way. As it turns out there was indeed a back, where a black car was waiting for them. Lucy kindly opened the door and smiled.

Both Greg and Mycroft clambered in and Lucy and Margaret got in on the opposite side. 

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun,” Lucy said happily as she clapped her hands in excitement. The car peeled out of the back alley and onto the streets, past where the police were lined up in front of the Diogenes. 

Mycroft and Greg looked at their friends as they stormed into the building. They watched them disappear into the distance. 

Mycroft took Greg’s hand and promised to himself to never let go.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying something new on ao3. I've never actually completed anything, but I promise to complete this one. Thanks!


End file.
